


Until the Cavalry Came

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Drugs, Explicit Language, Gen, Injury, Law Enforcement, Police, Violence, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-06
Updated: 2011-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets on the wrong side of the Russian mafia and Lestrade comes to his rescue. But who will rescue Lestrade?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until the Cavalry Came

**Warnings** : _Violence; threat of sexual assault; drug use and forced overdose._

 

“We’ll see how brave you are when you’ve got my cock down your throat.”

 

Lestrade crouches in the shadows of a grotty alley and assesses the situation in a few blinks.

 _Sherlock held down by two thugs – looks out of it – no help there. Three of them altogether – big one, no neck, all muscle, strong but slow – tall one, bald head, looks rough, watch out for him – short one, lazy eye, omega male, not a threat._

He waits until the big one with no neck turns his back fully before stepping up behind him and into the light.

“We’ll see how brave _you_ are when you’re wearing your arse for a hat,” Lestrade growls.

The three turn towards him, and Lestrade feels that exquisite slowing of time that accompanies adrenalin-infused experiences. In reality, it only takes moments and it’s done, but it seems as though he has all the time in the world to strike and parry, kick and dodge.

 _Take the big one out, first._

Lestrade’s fist connects with No Neck’s face; blood sprays from his broken nose onto the brick wall of the building and he reels backwards, sputtering furiously.

 _Baldy next…_

Lestrade’s elbow meets the bald thug’s jaw with a sickening crack. Lazy Eye finally kens to what’s going on and lets go of Sherlock, who slumps to the ground. One punch to the gut, and Lazy Eye doubles over; Lestrade follows up with a head butt, then whirls around and delivers a full-throated litany of invectives and taunts, meant more to alert the occupants of the lighted windows above them and random passers-by than to intimidate his adversaries.

 _So far, so good._

Lestrade hasn’t had a bare knuckles brawl like this since back in the day, and he’s almost starting to enjoy it. That is, until a pair of hands reaches for him and finds purchase, pulling him back and off balance.

Three to one are terrible odds in back alley brawls; he should have known better than to bet against the house. Still, he isn’t going to make this easy for them. He’ll hold them off as long as he can, and make as much noise as he can, until what? No help is coming; nobody knows where he is. He’d just heedlessly charged in, no stab vest, against police protocol, and ahead of a cavalry that doesn’t even know there’s a battle on. Maybe some good Samaritan might call the cops, but not bloody likely in this neighborhood. No, he’s on his own, and probably not long for this world – him and Sherlock bloody Holmes.

 _Stupid git._

He struggles against his captor and keeps up with the bluster, but Lazy Eye has a firm hold on him, pinning his arms behind him. No Neck sneers through a thick smear of blood, before delivering two body blows in quick succession, knocking the wind out of him and shutting him up. Lestrade gathers himself up and pushes backwards, kicking out wildly. By some stroke of luck he actually makes contact, and No Neck goes to the ground, clutching his groin and cursing.

Before he can be too pleased with himself, Baldy charges him. Lestrade sees the glint of steel in his hand too late. He wrenches himself sideways, half breaking Lazy Eye’s grip on him, but not quick enough. The blade catches him low in the gut; he feels a sickening pop as the sharp tip pushes past skin and muscle.

***

Right, then. This is the part where I tell you how I got into this mess in the first place; how I had the murder charges against Sherlock Holmes dropped and let him walk out of New Scotland Yard against my better judgment; how I jeopardized my career not two months after finally making DI.

I certainly had enough evidence to hold Sherlock on suspicion of murder, and while it was all circumstantial, you’ll have to admit it didn’t look good for him. I’ll run it down for you: Sherlock was found in an alley behind a seedy nightclub with the body of a drug dealer, dead from an overdose of an injected cocaine solution that wasn’t likely to have been self-inflicted – right-handed people don’t generally inject themselves in the right arm, after all. We couldn’t get a usable print off the syringe, unfortunately, but Sherlock was an admitted cocaine addict whose preferred method of delivery was injection. That’s fairly rare, as most people choose to snort it, or smoke it if they’re freebasing. He knew about the victim’s girlfriend, as well as Pechkin, the nightclub owner’s Russian mob connections (the place had been under surveillance for suspicion of human trafficking for some time). He knew that the victim had been talking to investigators, and that he was being recruited as an undercover operative. All of this would lead any rational person to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes had something to do with the murder. Maybe he’d overdosed the dealer by accident; maybe he’d done it on Pechkin’s orders.

Then again, maybe he’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. His explanation for how he knew all these things was plausible, if a bit outlandish. I’ve been an investigator for nearly fifteen years, and I know the value of observation and careful reasoning. But this fellow, he claimed he could read your life story from the cuff of your pants or the callouses on your hands. He did seem to know more about me than was comfortable, and I shan’t repeat what he said now because that’s none of your damn business. But the long and short of it is I started to believe him. And on a hunch, I let him go.

Of course I followed him; I’m not completely daft, you know. On the quiet and off the clock, of course – there was no way the higher-ups would have given leave for overtime on this one, and asking would have had them scrutinizing the decision to let him off in the first place. So that’s how I found myself at midnight right back at that damn nightclub, watching Sherlock disappear through the front door. Looking to score no doubt – he’d been increasingly anxious and irritable before I let him go. I hung about outside for a few minutes, dithering and kicking myself for having been such a fool as to trust him. I don’t know where I had expected him to go, or what I had expected him to do. _Well,_ I figured, _in for a penny, in for a pound,_ and followed him in.

Inside, the club was dark and stiflingly hot; I could feel the beat of the house music pounding straight through my chest. It took a few minutes to navigate through the press of drunks and dancers, but when I neared the bar I was finally able to get a glimpse of Sherlock at the other end of the room, looking down his nose at Pechkin and gesturing wildly. I redoubled my effort to push through the crowd, but before I could reach him Sherlock had been surrounded by three of the nightclubs rough looking bouncers, and was being “escorted” through a back door after Pechkin.

When I made it to the door, it was locked. I guessed that it led to the back office area of the club, and eventually out into the alley. So I made my way slowly back through the thick of the crowd, and out into the cold night air again. I ran as quietly as I could around back, stopping just shy of rounding the corner into the alley.

Of course, that was about the time I really should have called for backup. I had my mobile out and everything, but the sound of shouting and loud scuffling and a muffled cry for help made me pocket it again, and I popped my head around the corner to see what was what.

Sherlock was kneeling in a puddle of yellow light cast by the lamp above the back door of the nightclub less than a dozen yards away, surrounded by the four men that had forced him outside. Two now held him down by either arm – the one on the left sported a crooked grin and a bit of a lazy eye, the one on the right’s bald head glistened with sweat in the glare of the light. The third, a thick bloke with short-cropped hair and no neck stood watching with arms crossed, while Pechkin loomed over Sherlock, muttering something I couldn’t quite catch. Then he stepped back, and I heard something fall rattling to the ground.

“Make sure you get his prints on the syringe before you’re done with him,” Pechkin said, pulling off a pair of rubber gloves and tossing them into a nearby skip, before disappearing back into the club. Sherlock struggled furiously but couldn’t break free from the two thugs holding him, and the third closed in on him with a murderous glint in his eyes.

I ran towards them, half-crouching, keeping to the dark that clung to the wall opposite the nightclub door, trying to preserve the element of surprise for as long as possible. I stopped just outside the halo of light, not quite sure what to do next. I could see Sherlock smiling up at his soon-to-be tormentor, but his eyes were wild and unfocused.

“I don’t begrudge you your unfortunate choice of profession,” Sherlock said. “You could have hardly expected to do better with your abusive upbringing, alcoholic mother, and scholastic failure due to a combination of low IQ and dyslexia. Let me go now and I’ll put in a good word for you – might even let you live, provided that I do, of course.”

“Well, aren’t you the brave one, you poncey little shit? We’ll see how brave you are when you’ve got my cock down your throat.”

Right, so this is where you came in. Let’s get back to it, shall we?

***

Lestrade yelps and twists viciously away, breaking Lazy Eye’s hold on him. He hits the ground hard, instinctively rolling away from the kicks aimed at his head, and comes to rest in the shadow of an overflowing skip. Curled into a defensive ball, he feebly tries to shield himself from the blows that will inevitably follow him.

The sudden screech and whine of tires makes him jerk his head up; the bright glare of headlamps rends through the darkness, blinding him. Two black Mercedes sedans block either end of the alley. A rush of feet sound on the cobblestones, then, confusion and cursing fill the air as the three murderous thugs make a run for the nightclub door and are intercepted, subdued.

Lestrade blinks and tries to sit up, fighting against the burning agony in his gut that flares with every movement. A dark shadow steps into his field of vision and hovers over him, blocking the light. He feels a hand pressing to his abdomen to staunch the bleeding, then other hands, strong and sure, lifting him to his feet. He looks blearily to his right and sees a dark, suited figure kneeling over Sherlock’s prostrate form. Two men whom he has never seen before half support, half carry him to one of the waiting cars, and bundle him into the back. Too scrambled to be afraid and too exhausted to be anything other than grateful for the warm security of the vehicle, he leans his head back against the soft leather of the seat and closes his eyes.

 _Cavalry’s arrived after all, then_ , Lestrade thinks, wearily. _Took them long enough._

END  



End file.
